


Every Alcoholic has his reasons.

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brother Feels, Child Neglect, Gen, I'm Sorry, I'm so so sorry, Non-Canonical Character Death, Prison, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Douglas tells a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Alcoholic has his reasons.

Douglas' childhood was... interesting.  
He never really talked about it, but he knew one day, the ever tease-material watchful Martin would bring it up.  
He just didn't want it to be this day.

Martin had seen him on the phone that morning. An unfamiliar look of unease had stained his usually cheerful face.  
He heard only Douglas' side of the conversation, but it was enough to know something was up.  
"Hello?" he'd asked, clearly not recognising the number on the screen.  
A moment later and his face crumpled.  
A moment later still and he look shocked.  
"Today? But I thought they said-"  
...  
"Okay. Okay. Will you...?"  
"Good. And uh... text me, when he... when it's..."  
"Yes. Okay."  
And Martin could see him fighting back the tears in his eyes.  
He hung up without a goodbye.

"Who was that?" he'd asked, once the plane was in the air.  
"Hm?" said Douglas, only half listening.  
"On the phone. This morning."  
"Oh. That was... my father."  
Douglas watched Martin's face carefully. He didn't want to upset him. It's never nice to know your dad's been outlived by the dad of your twenty-years-older friend. And there it was, a slight flicker, just for a moment, of resentment.  
"You don't talk about him much."  
"No."  
That was quite clearly a warning. I have my reasons. Leave it. But he didn't leave it, and who could blame him? He'd brought up countless things the captain didn't want to talk about.  
"Why?"  
"He's never really been a part of my life."  
He didn't get it. How could he? No matter how unsupportive, his dad was always there for him.  
"He was... never a fan of children, to be honest. But that was fine, we had mother. Or we did."  
He sighed. May as well tell him everything.  
"The first five years of my life were great. Father was just a man in an armchair, Mother would tell me stories and sing me songs. Two years in, Henry was born. After a while, when he was big enough, we'd run up and down the stairs, shouting and laughing. I'd show him tricks and teach him things. It was... it was a happy time.  
Then Mother got ill. We never knew what it was, never took her to a doctor. But gradually, she got more tired. Stopped cooking for us. We turned to Father, but..."  
He paused.  
"My father was a good man. Maybe not to us, and he had his faults, but he loved her, his wife, more than he could love anything else. No more love to give. Not even to his sons.  
He slowly started to become more visible. We saw him more. He'd glare, and occasionally thrust money at us so we could eat. By the time I was five, though, Mother had been put up in the spare room, and Father stayed in there most of the time. All of the time."  
Martin had heard enough now. There was nothing funny to be found. But this wasn't for Martin anymore.  
"I started cooking. There was always food in the house, we were rich, and I learnt some basic stuff. He ate at work, or took food into the Room, or something, so it was just me and Henry. I couldn't go to school, I realised that, someone had to look after the three-year old. We still played, but more like an uncle and the nephew he was looking after, than two carefree brothers. Two years on, and I was head of the house. He could go to school, so I could. We'd put our uniforms on together, and get ready to go out like it was a big adventure. In a way it was.   
School was great. We made friends, we were bright, we did well. I'd come and pick him up outside his classroom, and we'd go home and tell Mother all about it, whether she could hear us or not. We went on like this for years. It became routine. At least I was only managing two meals a day, not three.  
Then I was nine. Year Six loomed. Then secondary school. I realised I'd have to leave him behind. I made plans, that if I went here, I could cycle back for this time, and Father would have to do this this and this, but when I went to show my father the plans, he was sitting in the front room with two police officers.  
Now, because we didn't take her to a doctor, the authorities didn't know about Mother's disease. And Father knew she hated hospitals, so he went on not telling them as they gave him his rights, and told him if he didn't struggle, he could get to prison in time for the moon-landing."  
"Sorry- the moon-landing?" said Martin, the first thing he'd said since the start of the story.  
"Yes, Martin, the moon-landing. I'm fifty-four, I was nine at the time, it was the year of the moon-landing. Keep up."  
"Fraud and embezzlement. Tax evasion. Turned out he was involved in loads of dodgy stuff at his business. He left us to look after Mother.  
I hated it, Martin. I hated every minute of it. I hated the room, I hated seeing her like that, I hated all that responsibility. So when the forms came around for secondary school, I just wanted to get away. A boarding school as first choice. A forged signature from Mrs. Richardson. I told him everything he needed to know, taught him to cook and clean, made sure he knew what he was doing. There was nothing he could've done.  
There was nothing he could've done."  
He saw Martin slowly gasp as it dawned upon him.  
"Yes. She died. He was at school. In the end, it was a stroke that finished her. But..."  
"But?"  
"But there were rumours. He started going slightly mad with the pressure of it, and they say, they do say... He wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have. He was so nice, and gentle... If he did, it was because she asked him to. An assisted suicide. No more. Father believed it though. Came back, three years after he left, nearly damn well killed poor Henry. Sent him off to the same school I was at. I don't think they've talked since.  
And school helped. We healed ourselves, we healed each other. It was a good public school, none of that paedophilia you read about. That would've been the last thing we needed. But still, I could never quite forget. Neglect, as I later realised it was, is not something that goes away. So that's when I started... when I started to drink."  
"Oh, Douglas," breathed Martin, but he wasn't finished.  
"Last year, Henry developed a brain tumour. That phone call... it's today."

They sat in silence for the rest of the flight, and when a text alert sounded on Douglas' phone, neither of then mentioned it, or read it. And Martin pretended not to notice his co-pilot's shallow sobbing.


End file.
